


Just A Little Longer

by orphan_account



Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Angst, M/M, Sam coming to terms with the grief, takes place after Uncharted 4: A Thief's End
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-29 09:09:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13923954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Because sometimes when Sam sleeps, he can still feel Rafe’s heartbeat thrumming like plucked cello strings underneath his fingertips while their legs continue to intertwine like perfect puzzle pieces being slotted together as they sleep under these soft king-size, hotel duvets.It’s almost like Rafe never actually,truly, left him to begin with.





	Just A Little Longer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Apetunias](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apetunias/gifts).



It’s the smell of that rich and inordinately expensive cologne that breaks the spell before it has even begun.

A soft blend of saffron, cinnamon, and sandalwood combined together that generates a memorable heat in the back of Sam’s throat - jerking him awake from that transparent phase of drowsing into a deep slumber yet still horribly conscious and aware of his surroundings. Sam drags his heavy, sleep-filled eyes open with a silent groan because the smell has flourished excessively into nothing but a thick hanging mist settling around him while a heavy weight that presses itself up against him lingers far longer than it should. 

Sam can almost laugh if his tongue didn’t feel so dry; swollen and stuck to the roof of his mouth where he swears he can still taste the residue of pizza grease and cheap alcohol stuck in the pits and grooves of his back molars. 

Who knew that his dreams - nothing but just a series of thoughts, images, and sensations that his brain conjures during his REM sleep - could be so downright cruel. Because sometimes when Sam sleeps, he can still feel Rafe’s heartbeat thrumming like plucked cello strings underneath his fingertips while their legs continue to intertwine like perfect puzzle pieces being slotted together as they sleep under these soft king-size, hotel duvets. 

It’s almost like Rafe never actually, _truly_ , left him to begin with. 

~*~

It is near the cusp of dawn by the time that Sam shakes himself awake and hauls himself off to the balcony to take his daily smoke break. 

Sam takes another drag of his cigarette, inhaling the carcinogens and chemicals deep into his lungs before blowing the smoke out through half-pursed lips into the crisp, but somehow still humid, coastal summer air. His eyes were still drooping with sleep and exhaustion-tinged irritation, but sleep hardly ever came easy to him these days. Especially during the times when he went treasure hunting with Sullivan - and one of those times being now ever since they had both decided to partner up for the hell of it - who usually booked a room next door, and to Sam’s usual astonished disbelief, he could hear the older man snoring up a storm like there wasn’t even a wall separating them to begin with. 

So there he was, standing outside on the balcony of the hotel room they had bought to spend the night in before traveling again across Malacca city and its infamous antique shops and night markets in search for another treasure. Sam was sure that this treasure had its own exaggerated, God-knows-fuck-all myths and big-ticket price that was sure to gain him and Sullivan another fortune before they dug their hands into the dirt again for another treasure to search. But for right now, Sam wanted nothing to do with it until Sullivan woke up and came bounding into his room again for another session of _“how can you even read this, it doesn’t even look legible,”_ and where Sam would simply retort with _“comes in handy for impressing the ladies, but I guess it finally came into use in translating these kinds of things.”_  

This morning Sam had woken up in a cold sweat, and even though it had been an hour ago, he could still feel the adrenaline of waking up in hurry prickling his skin like iced needles and the onslaught of unending trembles as the aftermath clawing themselves deep within the marrow of his bones as a blatant refusal of letting go. His throat still felt parched and scratchy, but he was in no hurry to find a remedy for that particular problem as the nicotine felt like a better solution to his high-strung, muddled brain that still couldn’t process what had happened. 

Though if Sam is going to be completely honest, he knows exactly what had occurred and was glad that he was alone in his room to fully embrace the effects of what he’s really done to himself. Because sometimes when Sam’s not too focused on traipsing around and starting idle chatter with women and writing down his phone number for them in fancy calligraphy as they adventure around the globe, he catches Sullivan staring at him with a forlorn look in his eyes as if he knows or at the least has an inkling of what is going on with him. But it’s also just like Sullivan to say nothing, to carry onward with a reluctant silence to this topic as they journey together because he doesn’t want to step onto Sam’s personal territory that is still too soft and tender to be tread on with heavy, unwanted steps. 

It’s not like Sam can blame the older man anyways with how he’s been acting lately; the bags under his eyes are getting darker, his sleep schedule has now officially become non-existent as he fuels himself with nothing but coffee and second-hand booze that are left to cover the kitchen table when he’s up again at night til the late morning. And when he does sleep, he barely grazes the edges of unconsciousness until the trembling seeps in with the taste of bitter regret coating the back of his tongue like a thick sludge of an over-expired cough syrup that he finds hard to swallow completely.

There is no doubt in Sam’s mind in comprehending why this is all happening, and no matter how many times he has acknowledged it to himself quietly in the forms of inaudible whispers, Sam still can’t say the confirmations he needs to hear out loud: the reason why Sam can’t sleep without waking more weary than before and riddled with confusing, unwanted emotions that drain him of sanity that seems to drive not only himself but even Sullivan to a quiet withdrawal. 

The anniversary of Rafe Adler’s death. 

The date of Rafe’s passing is coming up and there’s nothing Sam can do but ride it out as the dreams haunt him once more and the fragments of his own imagination will taunt him into deeper desperation and more self-made guilt. It’s nothing but an unattainable desire that Sam knows better than anyone else that he’ll never have Rafe in his arms ever again, but everything has a loophole if you try hard enough. Or maybe in this case with his own conscience speaking with a voice encased of appalled disappointment: everything has a loophole if you’re deplorable enough to drop into the lowest of lows to get what you desire. 

He leans forward against the black railings of the balcony, ignoring the creak of the wooden floorboards he standing on as he shifts from one foot to another before staring down at the butt end of his cigarette still burning like a dying ember. There is still a soft touch of humidity hanging in the air, but the chill of dawn still sends a sliver of goosebumps across Sam’s skin and there comes a slow realization that he can’t think of anything but the emptiness of his thoughts. It’s a strange sort of emptiness - numb and not really here mentally yet still standing, breathing, and existing in some sense of the word. But it’s that familiar scent that pulls Sam into a false sense of reality where his imaginations come to life in a way that hurts too much even though it is supposed to be comforting. 

And it makes Sam wonder with a heavy sigh if deep down he’s a masochist for wallowing in the dark abyss of refusal, guilt, and self destruction that all churn too easily together like milk and flour because his version of mourning has taken a drastic turn for the worse. 

Before Sam can place the cigarette back on his lips to take another inhale, it’s a familiar scent that the wind brings which brings him to full attention, alert and standing rigid on the spot. It’s the scent of that heavy cologne that had been the reason of his alarm-induced awakening and even though the smell is something that Sam feels a fondness over, he’s not too sure anymore if it’s something he should loathe or cherish. But it jerks him back to a state of nausea as a harsh knot latches itself to the middles of his throat and the horrible familiarity of that fragrance alone drags him to a manifested phase of perpetual longing to fall for his own schemes or to shake himself awake with awareness that this counterfeit consolation was only a prison in disguise.

But it’s already too late. A mockingly boyish laughter rings out behind him on the balcony and Sam nearly doubles over with a dark expression on his face as he hears that voice again. 

“Miss me, Samuel?” 

There is no energy left to muscle any movement to turn and face Rafe like he knows he should out of courtesy, but he finds that he doesn’t have to as Rafe takes residency beside him on the balcony. At the farthest edge of his peripheral he too finds Rafe leaning forward against the railing just like him. Except the other raises his head, turning around to take in the scenery and it doesn’t take a genius to notice the way that Rafe’s eyes light up are in recognition of their location before turning back to Sam with a reticent expression and eyeing the cigarette between his fingers with immediate distaste. 

“So what are you two-bit thieves up to this time? Finding that pearl necklace or the other riches that were said to be stolen from Afonso de Albuquerque, the Portuguese expedition leader who came here with his armada, to sever the Islamic and Venetian trade?” 

An abrasive scoff erupted from Sam in a rude manner as he flicked the butt of his cigarette until he changed his mind and stubbed the cigarette out instead as he turned to return Rafe’s unapologetic staring. “Since when did you care? And what are you doing here anyways?” 

A question that slips from Sam out of reflex and irritation, but it still makes him cringe as Rafe lets out a crueler laugh this time. Rafe’s eyes glint in a dangerous way, in the way that Sam knows he’s alighted a flame or scorched a nerve that hits too close to home and it’s in this way that Sam knows that meetings like this need to end. 

“Oh, I don’t know know,” Rafe spits out, words dripping venom as his brows furrow with anger marking his face and his mouth drops into an ugly scowl. “Maybe because someone can’t let me go even though it’s already been two years since I’ve died.” 

Sam flinches away at the hoarse anger in Rafe’s voice. There’s not much to say as the guilt piles up in the back of his throat tasting vile and thick like expired cough syrup. Sam can’t turn to face him, but Rafe laughs it off anyways - a biting, harsh exhale that sounds like it hurts the more it continues. 

“So how long are you going to keep me here, Sam?” Rafe mutters it with heavy contempt and something else that Sam can’t pin point as Rafe’s fingers dig their way into his pockets and take out his half-empty pack of cigarettes. “When are you going to let me go and move on with your fucking life?!” 

Rafe gnashes his teeth against his bottom lips as if to hold back any more biting words that are sitting poised on his tongue ready to strike, but continues to take out a cigarette and bring it to his mouth and snatch Sam’s lighter to light the butt end by himself. He watches the other man take a drag, eyes closed shut with his brows knitted together before taking the cancer stick out his mouth and blowing out a puff of smoke. The silence grew as Rafe tooke several more huffs with his eyes closed and Sam continued to watch for a while before turning away to light up another for himself after stubbing out the last one. 

But the long, pin-dropping silence growing between was doing nothing but watering the black guilt strapped within the inside of Sam’s throat. It was beginning to feel tight; a sort of remorseful sort of grievance that clawed at the sensitive flesh inside his throat like a triple-knotted rope that only grew thicker the silence grew louder into a prickling, television static that never stopped playing. 

“...I know,” Sam whispered into the space between them as he turned to stare at the man who no longer existed. “I’m hurting myself by doing this, but I can’t let you go; I think you would know what I mean since...you’re a part of me.” 

The edges of Rafe’s lips curled up into wry smile. “As expected of someone with such keen intelligence. So when did you realize that you were talking to the imagination of me: the version of me that you ended up conjuring in place of the real me who isn’t here anymore?” 

He stared hard at Rafe, eyes tracing the curve of his sharp jaw to the way how his upper lip was actually slightly smaller than his bottom lip to the way he easily found how the man standing by him was still Rafe but also not at the same time. And his heart ached at the thought that this was how it was all going to end. 

Sam truly being all alone and Rafe still crushed and dead under the treasure that he had hunted for years whether it was with him, by Rafe himself, or others that Rafe had gathered to use along the way. 

“I’ve always known.” Sam admitted quietly under his breath as the more he talked about the more it was nailed to his consciousness that nothing about this was really healthy. That in truth, nothing about this was ideal, but it was something he could cling on to as a last resort “It’s just that this was all I had left of you and - and I just can’t let go, not yet.”

A pitiful smile crosses Rafe’s features for a split second, and it’s enough for Sam to know and understand that this was nothing more than just a doppelganger he had made up. Because Sam understood Rafe, was closer to Rafe than anyone else was, and therefore it was so easy to pick out the cracks of this false, bittersweet facade that Sam had made for himself. 

Rafe wasn’t like this: understanding to a fault that it allowed Sam to selfishly continue to wallow in self-pity and guilt over things he had no control over unless it played into Rafe’s own gain in one way or another. Rafe Adler was the kind of man who was charismatically confident to the point of arrogance and ill-tempered with a disgusting, demanding persona who also couldn’t let things in the past die. 

That was how Sam knew that the Rafe who stood in front of him was nothing but an idealized, fantasized, made-up apparition of who Sam envisioned Rafe to be at times like this - nothing at all to the real Rafe who Sam had loved and lost. And it was then that Sam noticed how the idealized version of Rafe stared at him with a knowing look as if he had already known what Sam wanted to say before it even entered his line of thought. 

“Made up your mind then, Sam?” 

Voice too soft, too comforting in the way that grief became a hand curling around his heart like a tight fist that knew no mercy. The answer was always there; visible and out in the open yet Sam couldn't do it, or at least not yet. Sam opened his eyes, not knowing when he had closed them, and noticed how the edges of his sight began to blur as an itchy heat began to settle on the skin beneath his eyes. 

“You’re not really Rafe. I mean you are, but you’re an idealized version of Rafe who I’ve made up after your death because I couldn’t - didn’t want to forgive myself over knowing that you died and it could have been completely my fault, even though I’ve also known that your death wasn’t completely my fault either….” Sam inhales slowly, ignoring the way his breathing shakes and how the lump in his throat only continued growing as if its goal was to constrict his airways. “And I know that another big reason why you’re still here, why I needed you here like this, is because I just-” 

“I know, Sam, I know.” Rafe shushes him, a hand reaching out to grasp Sam’s own shaking hands to rub soothing circles over the calloused knuckles that had developed over the years in prison. “You don’t need to say anymore.” 

And the dam in Sam breaks as the shaky breaths turn into silent tears as the comforting hand still remains so foreign yet horribly familiar. “...Just a little more like this. Let me hold on for a little longer, please.” 

There was nothing but silence and Rafe’s soothing hands and Sam couldn’t find the heart nor desire to overcome this. He would eventually, Sam was sure of that as there was nothing worse than remaining stagnant in this sort of grieving pain. But until then, just a little longer.


End file.
